


There's a Science to Walking Through Windows

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Addiction recovery, Childhood Trauma, Doctor Tony Stark, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Canon, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers is Stubborn, Team as Family, They're both a mess, Tony Stark is a genius, Tony is insecure, Work In Progress, oblivious idiots, steve is insecure, they both think the other is too good for them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24365197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: Tony Stark is a genius. Steve has always been painfully aware of this fact. Somehow, it seems to be drawing them further and further away from each other.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've posted snippets of this fic on Tumblr a long time ago, where I referred to it as "The Doctor Stark fic." I have edited it and will be posting new chapters.

The bright red digits on the alarm clock read 02:54. Steve has been staring at the blank canvas of the ceiling for the past ten minutes, trying to clear his mind of the nightmare that startled him awake. The trembling in his hands has subsided, but the cold sweat drying on his skin makes him shiver. A throbbing pressure builds against his skull, heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. Chest tight, he takes deep breaths, struggling to regulate his breathing back to normal.

After another fifteen minutes go by, he accepts that he won’t be falling back asleep and climbs out of bed. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, grabbing his sketchpad before making his way out of his room and navigating the dark halls of the tower.

As expected, he finds Tony in the workshop, furiously scribbling on the schematics pulled up on the screen in front of him. Steve watches him through the glass door for a moment, hand hovering over the holographic security panel at the entrance. It feels invasive to barge in unannounced, especially when Tony seems preoccupied. Instead, he raises his hand to rap on the glass.

Startling, Tony turns towards the sound. Steve gives a little wave, and a moment later the door slides open. “You know, when I programmed an access code for you, it was with the expectation that you’d use it,” Tony says in greeting.

“Didn’t wanna interrupt,” Steve shrugs. It’s the second time this week he’s sought Tony out in the middle of the night, and he doesn’t want to overstep or impose his presence. “You mind if I stay down here? I won’t get in the way, but if you’re busy I can—”

“I don’t mind,” Tony says, putting his hand on Steve’s arm. “Can’t sleep?”

“Something like that,” Steve admits gingerly, shoulders dropping. He knows he must look pathetic, with red-rimmed eyes and sweaty hair plastered to his forehead.

Tony’s forehead creases in concern. “Steve—”

“I’m fine, Tony,” he insists, looking his friend in the eye. It’s true, for the most part; he’s a bit shaken from the nightmare, but it’ll pass. The last thing he wants is to relive it again. “I don’t—I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Okay,” Tony says, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief at his easy acceptance. “If there’s anything I can do…”

“Already doing it,” Steve assures with a soft smile. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, and being in Tony’s presence is enough to put him at ease. On his way to the couch, Steve spots the various holograms Tony is working with, finding himself intrigued. “What’s all this?”

“What? Oh, just some stuff for Resilient,” Tony says dismissively, rearranging one of the holograms. “We’re looking into developing nanoantennas as a possible replacement for solar cells. Well, actually, I’m trying to develop a nanoscale rectifier so the energy could be converted to electricity, since the infrared rays—” Tony stops then, mouth going flat and hands freezing mid-movement. “Sorry. I don’t mean to bore you with this stuff.”

“If I found it boring, I wouldn’t have asked,” Steve says, a tad offended. He might not have any scientific expertise nor Tony’s brilliant mind, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be genuinely interested. Curiosity counts for something, doesn’t it? He drops his sketchpad on the couch and walks over to where Tony is standing, bumping their shoulders together. “So, solar energy?”

Tony’s mouth quirks up in a lazy half-smile. “Well, kind of. See, mass-market solar cells only use up a measly twenty percent of the visible light they collect. I’ve been running some simulations, and under the right conditions, nanoantenna arrays could harvest over ninety percent of the energy at infrared wavelengths—”

“So energy could be collected at all times,” Steve says in awe.

“Exactly!” Tony's eyes light up and he starts gesticulating. “It has the potential of being a much more efficient, not to mention affordable, alternative to solar cells.”

“That’s… Tony, that’s incredible,” Steve stammers. He’s always known how influential Tony’s work is, the kind of innovation his mind is capable of, but witnessing it first-hand can get overwhelming. Knowing Tony Stark is nothing short of a privilege, and Steve’s chest swells with pride.

Tony’s cheeks heat at the praise, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah, well, it’s really more of an idea than anything else at this point. The tricky part is converting the energy into electricity—I need to develop a nanoscale rectifier to convert the alternating current created by the infrared rays to direct current. It’s theoretically possible, but… well, there’s a lot left for me to work out.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Steve says with a reassuring smile. Of that much he’s confident. “You always do.” He looks around at the clutter on Tony’s desk: stacks of notebooks and textbooks along with loose paper. “What’s all this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you use actual paper before.”

“Very funny, Rogers,” Tony says distractedly, already typing a code into one of the simulation screens. “I dug up some of my old research, thought there might be something useful in there.”

Steve shuffles the papers around, unable to suppress a fond smile as he opens a notebook to see Tony’s messy scrawl all over the lines, the margins adorned with equations and scribbles. He notices a book with thick binding among the clutter, picking it up to examine. “This is a PhD dissertation,” he says in wonder, tracing the embossed letters that make up Tony’s name on the cover.

“Yeah, an utterly useless one,” Tony says with a wave of his hand. “I don’t even remember completing the thing, to be honest — which isn’t surprising seeing as I spent most of that degree drunk out of my mind.”

Steve tenses at the words, his stomach lurching in discomfort. It’s all too common for Tony to belittle himself in the guise of self-deprecating humour, and Steve can hardly stand it. “Nothing you produce can ever be useless, Tony,” he can’t help himself from commenting, feeling Tony’s disbelieving gaze on him. Clearing his throat, Steve adds, “I didn’t know—you never mentioned you have a doctorate.” 

“Three, actually,” Tony corrects with a shrug, not even looking up from his work. “And it never really came up. It’s just a piece of paper with a title, not like it was going to help save the world.”

_ Your  _ mind _ has saved the world countless times _ , Steve thinks.

“Well, I think it’s pretty incredible, Shellhead,” he says sincerely through the lump in his throat, flipping through the pages. None of it is surprising, and yet, he wonders how he didn’t know something so basic about one of his closest friends. It’s a small thing, but somehow seems profound — just further proof the intimacy Steve craves is out of reach. But then, he can hardly fault Tony for that.

Absorbed in his thoughts, it takes a moment for Steve to notice the awkward silence that has settled in the room. Beside him, Tony seems frozen, fingers hovering over the virtual keyboard on the screen.

“Howard didn’t find it all that impressive,” Tony finally says. There's a slight tremor in his voice, undetectable to the untrained ear. He resumes his typing, but Steve notices the way his shoulders hunch and his jaw tenses. “The first one he was okay with, but after that… Well, the thesis topics I chose were ‘nonsensical,’ according to him. A waste of time and resources. Unbefitting of a Stark.”

“Yeah, well, he was a bastard who didn’t know what he was talking about,” Steve blurts on reflex, hands balling into fists at his sides. The more he learns about Tony’s father, the more he wishes he could’ve met the guy just to deck him. “You’re ten times more brilliant than he ever was, and a hundred times the visionary. I suppose he didn’t know how to handle that.”

Tony’s eyes widen, flashing with an emotion Steve can’t quite pin down. It may have been blunt, but Steve doesn’t regret speaking his mind; Tony deserves the validation and needs to hear it more often. Still, he wonders if he inadvertently revealed too much about the way he feels about Tony, if that’s the reason for the indiscernible expression on his face.

“Thanks, Cap,” Tony says, his voice hoarse.

Steve’s stomach drops at the impersonal use of his field name. Tony is pulling away, and it’s yet another reminder that he could never reciprocate his feelings.

Steve clears his throat, realizing he’s still holding Tony’s thesis in his hand. “Do you mind if I—Could I maybe read it?”

Tony’s forehead wrinkles as he raises his brows, his hand dropping from the screen. “You… want to read my thesis?”

“If it’s alright with you? If you need it for your project—”

“No, I—I don’t. Like I said, it’s pretty useless.” Tony runs a hand through his hair. “You can… If you want to, you can take it with you.”

“Thanks,” Steve says with an uneasy smile, straightening his shoulders. “Right. Well. I think I can maybe catch some sleep now,” he lies, turning to leave. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Yeah, any time,” Tony’s voice calls out after him as he turns to leave.

Steve heads straight to the gym, beating the punching bag until his knuckles are split open.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Tony Stark is a genius. Of course, Steve's always been aware of this particular fact, but it's only when he starts paying attention that he notices how evident it is in Tony's every action.

In the mornings, Tony comes into the kitchen with his hair in disarray, cheek red and creased from whatever hard surface he'd ended up falling asleep on. He barely registers anything else in his environment, mumbling under his breath as he makes a beeline for the coffee pot. It sounds like incoherent gibberish born out of fatigue, but Steve realizes they're actually fragmented thoughts, half-formed concepts of larger ideas that Tony is working out before he's even fully awake. It's exhausting just thinking about the speed with which his mind works.

Every piece of paper left lying around in the tower ends up with Tony's chicken scrawl on it. Whether it's a newspaper or a blank pad, by the end of the day one or several pages will be covered in complicated equations. Steve’s not sure if Tony actually needs any of it written down or if it’s just a way for him to purge his mind from its scientific chaos and give way to new ideas. Nevertheless, he collects the scraps of paper every night and leaves it in a bundle for Tony to find, just in case.

This typical Monday morning, Steve is buttering a piece of toast when Tony walks into the kitchen at eight AM. The knife nearly falls out of his hand, his mouth going dry at the sight of him. Tony looks impeccable in a charcoal grey suit that's fitted to hug his thighs, the skinny tie at the base of his throat the same shade of blue as his eyes. His hair is artfully styled to make it look as though he’d just rolled out of bed, and Steve itches to run his fingers through it. His favourite look on Tony will always be the grease monkey one he sports at the workshop, but this is definitely a close second.

"Hey," Tony says casually, completely unaware of the effect he's having on Steve. He places Steve's sketchbook on the counter. Steve hadn't even noticed him carrying it. "You left it in the workshop last week. Figured you might be wondering where it went," Tony explains.

Steve picks up the sketchbook, trying to decipher the equation that now adorns the cover in thick dark sharpie.

"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," says Tony, scratching the back of his neck. "Had a brilliant idea at 3 am, reached for the first thing I could find before I realized what it was."

"Don't worry about it," Steve says, pushing his own untouched cup of coffee toward Tony. "You heading out for a meeting?"

"Yeah," Tony confirms, scrunching his nose in disgust. "Remind me never to schedule meetings at such an ungodly hour."

Steve chuckles. "Alternatively, you could go to bed at a decent hour instead of spending half the night inventing like a mad scientist," he teases with a warm smile.

Tony waves him off before gratefully accepting the coffee, draining most of the cup’s content with a single sip. Steve tries and fails not to stare as Tony’s features smooth into an expression of pure bliss, eyes falling shut to savour the rich taste. Steve clears his throat and averts his gaze, finding sudden interest in the breadcrumbs on the counter.

"So, hey, speaking of inventions," he starts, trying to keep his tone casual despite the way his heart rate picks up. "How's the solar energy project coming along?" He'd spent the past few days researching nanoantenna arrays in the hopes they could discuss it. 

"What?" Tony asks, opening his eyes. A small crease of concentration appears between his eyebrows as he struggles to shake off his morning stupor. "Oh, that. Figured it out. It was pretty obvious once I got some sleep and firing on all cylinders. I sent the schematics to R&D a few days ago. I’m actually working on something else right now."

Steve's stomach drops, disappointment settling heavy like a stone. Of course Tony's moved on to something else; it was stupid to think Steve could keep up with him. "Oh," he says, hoping neither his face nor voice disclose anything. "That's—that's great. Knew you would."

Tony gives a lopsided smile that Steve recognizes as shy, flashing a hint of white teeth. Steve has the insane urge to kiss him, bite on the flesh of his lips—

Steve coughs into his hand and picks up the toast he abandoned during the conversation, continuing to spread the butter. "So how’d you manage it? The nanoantennas are—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, watching instead as his breakfast is snatched away with a quick flash of webbing. He looks up to see Peter sticking to the wall on the other side of the room, close to the ceiling.

"Peter!" he bellows. "We've talked about this! No webbing in the tower!"

Tony doubles over with the force of his laughter, the sound of it taking over the room. "Did you seriously just steal Captain America's breakfast?" he asks Peter and whistles. "You've got balls, kid."

"Cap’s muscles are happy and well-nourished," Peter argues. "I, on the other hand, am a growing boy."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You're twenty-five years old."

"Anyway, Peter, I’m glad you’re here. You're just the person I wanted to see," says Tony, motioning for Peter to come down. His eyes carry that excited gleam that means he’s itching to launch into a long debate about something science-related, and he’s practically bouncing off his feet.

Peter's eyes nearly bug out of their sockets, his expression one of total disbelief. "Me?" he asks around the stolen piece of toast in his mouth.

"Yeah, wanted to get your input on something," Tony says as Peter finally comes down to stand next to him. "You got your master’s of biophysics from Empire State, right?"

"Uh, yeah," Peter says, looking stunned. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting Tony to remember this detail. "I mean, um, I was enrolled in a PhD program, but I didn’t finish it."

"That hardly matters," Tony says, looking down at his watch. "I'm working on some medical tech I'd like to show you, get your input on it. I got twenty minutes before I gotta jet, what do you say we head down to the workshop for a bit?"

"Holy shit," is all Peter manages to say, jaw dropping. Of course, being Peter, it’s not long before he’s rambling at eighty miles per hour. "Is it my birthday? Am I dreaming? Someone pinch me. You want my help?  _ Tony Stark _ wants  _ my _ help? I get to go to your workshop?”

"So long as you keep those sticky web fluids to yourself," Tony teases, wrapping his arm around Peter's shoulders and guiding him out of the kitchen.

Steve feels like he's watching Tony walk further and further out of his reach. Clenching his fists, he tries to will down the jealousy that festers in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

Sweat trickles down Steve’s bare back as he throws punch after punch, ignoring the way his muscles ache and protest. The chains holding up the reinforced punching bag give an ominous creak as it sways. Steve stops his assault and takes a deep breath, bracketing the bag with his arms and resting his forehead against it. His head is pounding and his ankle feels like it’s on fire, throbbing with pain. He probably aggravated the injury and increased the recovery time, but he can’t bring himself to give much of a damn. The tightness in his chest hasn’t eased a bit; it sits steady as an anchor, tethering him to the spot.

The sound of socked feet padding across the gym makes him tense up. He fights down the instinct to turn and face the source, knowing it can only be one of his teammates.

“I’m no doctor,” Tony’s voice calls, “but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to engage in strenuous physical activity when recovering from a concussion and a severely fractured ankle. In fact, I was there when the  _ actual _ doctor ordered you to avoid just that.”

“I’m fine,” Steve says through gritted teeth, keeping his back to Tony. A sudden spell of dizziness overtakes him and he shuts his eyes, swallowing around the taste of bile rising at the back of his throat.

“Jarvis said you’ve been down here for close to three hours,” Tony says. His tone isn’t exactly chastising, but the note of disapproval is clear.

The information does come as a bit of a surprise; Steve had completely lost track of time. “I was just finishing up,” he says, but makes no move to step away.

“Liar,” says Tony, sounding amused. Steve says nothing, and the silence that follows is tense, stretching like a rubber band that’s about to snap with the slightest pressure. “Steve—”

“Don’t,” Steve says, hands balling into fists. He opens his eyes and trains his focus on the heavy bag, throwing a quick succession of punches. His technique is sloppy and there’s no rhythm to it; he can feel the strain on his back and shoulders as he barrels all of his strength into the bag.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tony says, his voice soft. “You have to know that.”

It only serves to further aggravate Steve. The last thing he needs is to be handled with care, like something fragile—he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t need Tony to make excuses for him, doesn’t need to be absolved of responsibility to ease his conscience.

“No, actually, I  _ don't _ know that!” he snaps, clenching his jaw. The anger slices through him like a scorching hot knife, branding him with the insignia of his failures. “And  _ you _ know that’s utter bullshit.”

Of course it was Steve’s fault. They received word that AIM had been using a secluded warehouse as a base of operations, and he assembled the Avengers to raid it and shut it down. It was a standard mission they’d conducted dozens of times. Except, this time, AIM had been expecting them, and the warehouse was rigged with explosives. Thor had spotted the device in time, allowing the team to evacuate the premises, but he got trapped in the burning rubble. By the time they managed to get him out, he’d suffered various degrees of burns to his arms and chest. Steve led his team into a trap, underestimated their enemy, and his friends got hurt as a result. Of course it was his goddamn fault. 

“You couldn’t have known it was a trap,” Tony says. “None of us knew—”

“Which is why I should’ve waited for more intel! We should have been doing recon, and instead I walked us straight into a dangerous situation!”

“Every single situation we respond to is dangerous,” Tony reasons. His voice sounds closer now, like he’s been strategically closing the distance between them. “You can’t control that. Sometimes we just can’t be prepared.”

“I can— _ should _ —do everything possible to minimize the risks,” Steve says, his body tense. He lets his hands drop to his sides, feeling utterly useless. All he can do is stare at some distant point past the punching bag. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, and the words feel like they’re scraping the lining of his throat. “It’s my job as the leader of this team. I’m supposed… I’m supposed to make sure everyone comes back safe.”

If Steve added any value to the Avengers, it was that of strategic planning. It’s what they count on him for, and he’d let them all down. He’d failed. The same way he failed Bucky when he’d led them into Zemo’s trap, when he could do nothing but watch as Zemo’s men tortured him. When he lost his grip and fell from the drone plane, leaving Bucky trapped, leaving him to die, leaving him to become a pawn and a weapon at the hands of their enemies.

A touch on his arm brings him back to the present, cold fingers pressing against his flushed skin. He finds Tony standing in front of him, blocking his access to the punching bag. Immediately, Steve’s gaze lands on the sling wrapped around Tony’s right arm, supporting his injured shoulder. His stomach churns with guilt.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Tony says. He grabs one of Steve's shaking hands and cradles it in his palm. With his left hand, he tugs on the velcro strap securing Steve's hand wrap, unravelling it with gentle fingers. The skin around the knuckles is torn and bloody. Tony doesn’t comment on it, just repeats the process with Steve’s other hand. “You have a terrible habit of demanding the impossible from yourself, you know that?”

"Thor is a God. If it had been anyone else… they could have..." Steve can't bring himself to finish the sentence, the weight of it like lead on his tongue. His mouth feels dry. It could have ended even worse than it had. He still remembers the smell of searing flesh, the wet welts and blisters that are almost gone now thanks to Thor’s accelerated healing.

Tony's thumb brushes the inside of his wrist, sending a shiver down Steve's spine. "Don't do this to yourself," Tony says, tracing circles across Steve's hand. He applies light pressure, massaging the knots out of his palms. "The team is injured but fine. There are always going to be what ifs—tormenting yourself with all the possible scenarios isn't going to do any good."

Steve finally looks up, meeting the concerned face of his friend. There are deep, dark circles under Tony's eyes and his skin is sallow. If Steve had to venture a guess, he'd bet it's been days since Tony's gotten any sleep. It’s a wonder he’s still standing up. Steve’s chest constricts with shame for not having noticed it sooner, for being so selfishly self-absorbed.

"You look like shit."

Tony’s mouth quirks up and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Yeah, well, you don't look so hot yourself, Winghead," he replies without missing a beat. Steve watches with a raised brow as Tony reaches inside his suit pockets, pulling out disinfectant swabs and bandages. “You’re more predictable than you realize, Rogers. I come prepared,” is the only explanation he offers as he starts cleaning out Steve’s bloodied knuckles.

Steve watches Tony as he works, studying the sharp, elegant contours of his face. “Are you going out?” he asks, gesturing to Tony’s suit.

“Yeah, I have an important meeting I have to head out to in a bit,” Tony says, starting on Steve’s other hand.

“Should you really be doing that, considering your injuries?” Steve asks, watching Tony’s face for any signs of pain or discomfort.

“I have a dislocated shoulder and a couple of fractured ribs, Steve,” Tony says dryly. He gives a small shrug and grimaces when the action pulls on his injured shoulder. “It’s not exactly pleasant, but I’ve had worse.”

“You still need rest, Tony.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Right. And I bet you’ve been getting lots of that yourself, right?” he says. Steve glares. "Are you honestly trying to lecture  _ me _ when you've spent the past three hours swinging punches with an injured ankle and a severe concussion?"

Steve crosses his arms over his bare chest, trying to come up with a suitable response. "I can take it," he says, stubbornly jutting out his chin.

Tony sighs. "Even you have your limits," he says. "Your body might be able to take a lot, Steve, but that doesn't mean you should flat out abuse it."

"Then what  _ am _ I supposed to do?" Steve asks, surprised by how vulnerable and defeated his voice sounds. His body starts shaking again and he looks down at his clenched fist, feeling the urge to smash it through the wall, break his hand against the plaster. "Sit here, completely useless, while Thor's body tries to heal itself, while you're recovering from your injuries? While AIM is out there because I messed up the mission, developing more weapons and getting stronger? What is it that I'm supposed to  _ do _ , Tony?"

"Steve," Tony says, his voice strong and unwavering. Steve's breath hitches when Tony's fingers close around his chin, tilting it up so their eyes meet. "You inspire this team. You keep us going. Did it even occur to you that we worry about you just as much as you worry about us?" His fingers trail along Steve’s cheek before cupping his jaw. Steve leans into the touch, pressing his face against Tony’s warm hand. "You're more than our captain, you know. You're our friend. We’re family."

Steve can barely comprehend the words over the buzzing in his ears. His gaze flickers from Tony's eyes to his lips and back again. He can feel the soft puffs of Tony’s breath against his cheek. There's hardly any space between them, and it would be so easy to lean in and kiss him—

Tony takes a step back, dropping his hand like it's been scorched. Steve feels his stomach drop. God, what is  _ wrong _ with him? Tony is his friend, and he'd been kind enough to offer comfort, and Steve had to make it weird. Had to let his own feelings for Tony colour his perception, misinterpret the situation.

“You should—You should get some rest, Cap,” Tony says, sounding pained. There it was again — the impersonal moniker, Tony pulling away. The message could not be clearer. “Take care of that ankle.”

“Right, yeah—yes,” Steve says hurriedly, nerves pinched tight. He hates that he’s made Tony uncomfortable, that he crossed a line that had clearly been outlined a long time ago. His cheeks burn with his shame.

“Do you—Do you need any help or can you walk?”

“No, no, I got it,” Steve says past the lump in his throat. “You’ve got a meeting to get to.” The idea of being in Tony’s presence for a minute longer is unbearable. He bends down to adjust the brace on his ankle and starts limping toward the elevator.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve doesn’t manage to get much rest. Minor as they are, his injuries continue to bother him, causing him to toss and turn throughout the night. Whatever little sleep he does manage to get is plagued by nightmares, the burning sensation in his lungs startling him awake, sheets soaked with cold sweat.

By the time sunshine begins peeking through his window, he’s feeling antsy and cranky. Normally, he’d already be partway through his run at this hour, but the sharp pain shooting through his ankle informs him that’s a colossally bad idea. Still, he itches to feel his feet connect with the pavement, to let the wind air out the memories that circulate in his mind. Instead, he lies back on the too-soft mattress and stares at the wall, nothing but his thoughts for company.

Steve can’t bear it for long, feeling restless, so he begins making his way out of bed. Even after securing the walking boot, moving around on his injured foot is more painful than anticipated. He grabs the crutches the doctor insisted he use at least some of the time to keep weight off his ankle so as not to risk re-injury — an instruction Steve had completely ignored until this moment. The bull-headed stunt he pulled last night might have pushed his body too far; if the swelling doesn’t go down by the afternoon, he’ll have to put his ego aside and seek further medical attention. 

Slowly, he manages to make his way to the living-room, finding Carol and Jim camped out next to each other on the couch. Carol is holding a bowl of cereal in her lap while Jim is sipping coffee from his favourite mug. They’re both wearing sweaty workout clothes, clearly having just gotten back from their morning run.

“Mornin’,” Carol greets with a smile. Steve answers in kind.

Jim narrows his eyes as he examines Steve. “How’s the ankle?” He starts to stand, but Steve raises his hand to stop him. 

“It’s fine.” The flat look he receives in response makes it clear he thinks Steve’s full of shit. Still, Jim doesn’t push and sits back down. “Is there more where that came from?” Steve asks, gesturing at the coffee mug.

“You bet.” 

Steve heads into the kitchen before one of them can offer their help. He leans the crutches against the counter, wincing against the pain as he puts weight on his ankle. He pours himself half a cup of coffee and chugs it down, grimacing at the aftertaste the black sludge leaves in his mouth.

“Carol, please don’t ever leave Jim in charge of making the coffee again,” he says as he returns to the living-room. “I don’t know what passes for coffee in the Marines, Colonel, but—” 

Steve stops talking when he notices the grim expressions on his friends’ faces. Carol looks nauseous, her skin pale and mouth parted in horror. Jim, on the other hand, looks murderous, his jaw tense with anger. The easy warmth that was present in the room only minutes ago is gone; instead, the atmosphere is as strained as if they’re preparing for battle. The reason becomes clear when Steve glances at the TV tuned in to the local morning news.

On screen is a video of Tony hurrying away from a group of paparazzi who are bombarding him with questions and blinding him with the flashes of their cameras. The clothes he’s dressed in are the same ones he was wearing last night, and he’s holding his right arm to his chest, trying to protect his injured shoulder. His steps are slow and uncoordinated and he looks like he's about two seconds away from falling flat on his face, exhaustion evident in his every movement. The headline reads "STARK OFF THE WAGON?"

When the clip ends, the broadcast cuts to an interview with a young man who claims he sat two tables away from Tony and watched him order two bottles of wine. The news anchor then wonders whether Tony’s injured shoulder is the result of an alcohol-related accident.

"What the hell," Steve says, grinding his teeth with such force it's a miracle they don't break.

"These fucking vultures," says Jim, clenching his fists. "I'm going to tear them a new one for this."

"Tear who?" 

They all turn toward the new voice. Tony rubs at his eyes as he enters the room, giving a lazy yawn. He hasn’t bothered to change out of his bed-rumpled pyjamas, his bare feet oddly endearing against the dark carpet. The sight of him makes Steve’s heart lurch. Even with the shoulder sling, it’s the most relaxed and well-rested Steve has seen him in a long, long time. 

"What has three superheroes looking so glum? Please don’t tell me I have to put on the suit, it’s too early—" 

Tony’s jaw snaps shut and he goes very still as he turns to the TV, the colour draining from his face.

"I wasn't drunk, I swear," he says in a rush, his tone desperate, "I was stumbling, yeah, but only because I was tired and in pain, I hadn't slept in four days—I'm not, I swear I'm not drinking again—"

"Tony, we know," Steve says in reassurance.

Tony’s body sags with relief. “You believe me?”

“Of course,” Steve says, hating the note of surprise in Tony’s voice. It's clear he’d been expecting accusations and distrust. "No one is buying this fake story."

Tony laughes, the sound entirely stripped of humour and full of self-deprecation. “It’s not exactly outside the realm of possibility, Steve. Plenty of people are going to buy this story.”

“Not anyone that matters, Tones,” says Jim, coming to stand next to Tony and squeezing his uninjured shoulder. “Look, we’ll kill this thing,” he pulls out his phone as he speaks, “it’s libel. You can slap them with a lawsuit so big the entire station will be history. I’m gonna give them a piece of my mind—”

“No, don’t,” Tony says, grabbing Jim’s hand to stop him. He looks each of them in the eye. “Please, all of you, stay out of it. Any response is just fodder that will keep this thing growing.”

“But Tony—” 

“Look, I grew up in the media spotlight. I know how these things work,” Tony insists. “Please, just trust me. It’s not a big deal. This whole thing will blow over in a couple of days, all right? There’ll be a new story. In the meantime... I need you to stay out of it to minimize whatever negative effect this is going to have on public opinion of the Avengers.” 

And isn't it just like Tony, to worry more about how this will affect the team when he’s the one unjustly being put on trial, when it’s his scars and wounds that are being cut open for him to bleed through. 

“We’d fight for you,” is all Steve manages to say, his throat feeling raw. “We’d fight with you. Every single one of us. Don’t you know that?”

Tony averts his eyes, like the words are too much to take in. “I do know that,” he says quietly. “But that’s not what I need right now. This isn’t your fight. Please, just… let me handle it.” With that, he leaves the room, the three of them staring after him.

“This is affecting him more than he lets on,” Jim says with a sigh. 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve agrees, feeling utterly defeated. 

It’s not like it’s the first time something like this has happened; tabloids and entertainment shows have fabricated stories about every team member at some point or another, though Tony’s personal life is subjected to the most scrutiny out of them all. Questioning his sobriety is a favourite topic of theirs, even—Steve has learned there are few things people in the twenty-first century are more obsessed with than watching somebody fall. Still, there is a difference between gossip and having it reported as a legitimate news story, which will now surely be repeated on other networks.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Jim says, but Carol tugs on his arm to stop him. 

“No, let me,” she says, looking between the both of them. “I know you want to help. But this—what this means to him? It’s not something you can understand.”

They fall silent at that, recognizing the truth in her statement. Carol walks over to Steve, kissing his cheek. “Get some rest, all right? Don’t give me something else to worry about.” 

“Fuck,” Steve says after she leaves, collapsing on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Jim agrees, taking the seat to his left. 

The news keeps playing in the background. They now have an addictions specialist on the show, commenting on the possibility of a relapse and the ramifications it could have for the Avengers. 

“Turn that garbage off, will you?”

Jim fumbles for the remote, sending the room into silence with the click of a button. From his peripheral vision, Steve can see him eyeing him.

“Steve. How are you, man? Really.”

“Fine, Jim,” says Steve, letting his head loll against the back of the couch. “Ankle should heal up in a couple of days.”

“I’m not asking about your damn ankle.”

Steve doesn’t say anything to that.

Jim sighs. “Look, I get it, all right? I’ve run enough failed missions to know how much they fuck with your mind. Some decisions haunt you,” he says, sounding pensive. “All I’m saying is… if you need to talk? I’m here.”

Steve keeps staring at the ceiling but feels a small tug on his lips. “I know.”

By the end of the week, Steve’s ankle is healed up and he’s given clearance to resume regular physical activity. He goes out for a short run early in the morning, mindful of not overdoing it. Unfortunately, the exercise does little to curve the foul mood he woke up in. His irritation only spikes when he returns from his run to find news vans parked outside the tower.

Despite Tony’s prediction, the media is still fixated on the fictitious story of his relapse. It’s all they seem to talk about. Resilient’s stock has been plummeting for days, and public approval of the Avengers has gone down. 

As soon as Steve is spotted, a swarm of reporters surround him. They thrust mics and cameras in his face, shouting questions at him. Is Stark planning on entering rehab again? What does this mean for his career as Iron Man? What do the Avengers intend to do about this? How long has this been going on? Is this his first relapse, or have there been others? Were you aware he’s drinking again?

Steve steels his jaw and tries to tune it all out, but his patience is dwindling with every new question. The past two nights had been fraught with nightmares and very little sleep; all he wants to do is get through the crowd and get back home. Even on a good day, keeping his temper in check is not exactly one of Steve’s virtues. 

He’s already at the entrance when one voice calls above the others, grabbing his attention.  
“Captain! There are many who are questioning whether Stark belongs in the Avengers. Are you planning on removing him from the team?”

And Steve just snaps. Tony has asked them not to comment on the story and rumours, and Steve intends to respect that; his recovery is Tony’s alone to discuss. But he can’t stand by and let them run this ridiculous circus, and they’ve just made it personal.

“Tony Stark is a founding member of the Avengers,” he says in a measured tone, turning to the reporter in question. “He’s the heart and soul of this team. He will always have a place on the Avengers.”

“Considering his personal issues, is that a wise—”

“Are you aware that just last week, Resilient developed medical equipment that will allow for more accurate imaging and earlier diagnosis?” Steve says, cutting the reporter off. His face is flushed with anger, but he’s too worked up to give a damn. “Or that two months ago, Resilient revolutionized the use of solar energy? Doctor Stark works tirelessly to provide us with innovation that will make our lives better and pave the way for future generations. Have you bothered to report on that? No, of course not, because you’d rather scrutinize his personal life, despite the fact it is none of your damn business.”

The crowd has gone silent, though the cameras keep rolling and occasional flashes from camera phones go off.

“You want a statement?” Steve continues, staring directly into the closest camera. “I’ll give you your goddamn statement, so listen carefully: what you vultures try to pass as journalism is fucking shameful.”

Having said what’s on his mind, Steve disappears into the safety of the tower, leaving the crowd of slack-jawed reporters behind.


End file.
